


and it comes back around

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Batdad, Crime Fighting, Dick Grayson is Robin, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Trafficking, Protective Bruce Wayne, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:04:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14268537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Bruce "I accidentally slipped and fell across the room, took out three tables and broke a desk with your body as I ACCIDENTALLY fell on you also you're going to jail” Wayne takes his young protégé down the rewarding path of revenge.(kudos to Batwayneman for the summary)





	and it comes back around

**Author's Note:**

> Dick is 11-12 in this story. 
> 
> Thanks to Batwayneman, as always, for letting me kvell about this fic. Hope everyone enjoys!

The room beneath his boots was quiet.

Bruce shifted back on his heels, feeling the metal beam creak under his weight. The warehouse was well-maintained, but even daily cleaning couldn’t stop the inevitable creep of rust across its surfaces. He avoided the rusted end of the beam, shifting closer to the wall.

 _“Any update?”_ Dick asked in his ear, sounding curious. Bruce could hear the sound of potato chips crunching in the background. _“They show up yet?_ ”

“Nothing,” he murmured into the comm, shifting again to keep the blood flowing in his legs. “No movement.”

 _“You know, I really wish the mob would show up to our stings on time,”_ Dick sighed, chewing loudly. “ _It’s just common decency, you know?_ ”

Bruce ignored his ward, focusing on the warehouse floor below him. The two entrances were motionless, the loading docks at either end awaiting whatever shipment the mob thought was profitable this week.

 _I hope it’s not fear toxin again,_ he thought, fists clenching at the memory. Wrangling a hallucinating Robin out of the last sting and into the Batmobile without bloodshed had been...far more difficult than he would have guessed.

“You have homework,” he informed the mic, careful to keep his voice low. “Finish that instead of chewing in my ear.”

 _“What chewing?_ ” Dick asked around a mouthful of chips, slightly muffled. _“No idea what you’re talking about.”_

The banter cut off as the cowl’s lenses detected motion in the left corner of the warehouse. He muted Dick’s line, listening carefully.

“--she won’t even _talk_ to me about it,” a voice said, rising in tone. “I mean, what a bitch, you know?”

Two men turned the corner, headed for the loading bay. One climbed up on the platform, undoing the internal lock. The other looked on, a flicker of red between his fingers--a cigarette, the tip glowing cherry-red in the darkness.

“Sounds like you two have _communication issues.”_ the smoking man said. Bruce frowned, unable to pinpoint why the voice was familiar. “At least, that’s what Betty’s always telling me.”

“Yeah, yeah. As if I need to see a fucking _therapist,_ ” the first man said, finally getting the door open. He stepped over to the control panel, pressing a button. The door began moving upwards, revealing the bottom of an idling semi. “That’s the last thing I fucking need, I’ll tell you that--”

 _Betty._ The voice suddenly clicked inside his head. Frank Bianchi--local businessman and philanthropist. Wife named Betty. Well-known marital problems.

 _Bianchi isn’t involved with the mob,_ Bruce squinted, thinking back to the last time he’d seen the man. A charity event in...New York? _Interesting._

“Just unload the merchandise, Antonio,” Bianchi sighed, blowing a cloud of smoke above his head. “I don’t have all goddamned night.”

 _“Antonio’s escorting this one?”_ Dick asked in his ear, surprised. He’d unmuted himself somehow; Bruce made a note to figure out how later. _“Must be something special. Wasn’t he hiding from Interpol in Argentina last month?”_

Bruce kept quiet, watching the two men carefully from his perch. Antonio waved the semi into the warehouse, walking backwards as Bianchi puffed away in the corner. The door rolled back down as the driver leapt out of the truck, hurrying around to the back.

Antonio disappeared into the compartment with him, rolling up his sleeves. Bruce zoomed in with the cowl, waiting.

His heart froze as the mobster reemerged with a thin arm grasped in his hand, dragging a girl no older than thirteen from the shadows. Behind him, the driver had two more in his grasp. They shoved the girls onto the concrete platform, returning to the compartment.

Bianchi watched this without reaction, still smoking in the corner. The first three girls were crying quietly on the concrete, their dresses torn and dirtied. Blood streaked their arms and legs; they were extraordinarily thin, even for their age.

“ _Por favor, por favor,”_ one of the girls mumbled into the ground, trembling. _“Quiero regresar a casa, por favor--”_

 _“Silencio_ ,” the driver ordered, kicking at the girl when she reached for his feet. “ _Te golpearé otra vez, perra. ¿Es eso lo que quieres?”_

“Ah?” Antonio directed at Bianchi, depositing another girl on the platform. “What do you think?”

“I was looking for something a little more...substantial,” Bianchi said, something disgusting in the smile he levelled at one of the girls. He stepped forward, grabbing the arm of the youngest one. “I suppose these will work.”

Antonio looked nervous. He grabbed one of the girls, smoothing her hair and shoving her towards the businessman. “I know they’re a little fucked up, but with a good bath, you won’t even notice the dif--”

Bruce didn’t let him finish the sentence. He threw a batarang at the wall above the man’s head, swinging down on a grappling hook before the men could react.

He grabbed Antonio around the waist and threw him onto the ground, knocking him out with a kick to the head. The driver pulled out a switchblade, glancing at his boss.

He advanced on Bruce, hesitating slightly as they drew closer.

In a burst of rage, he grabbed the driver’s wrist and _twisted,_ digging the knife into the man’s shoulder. Ignoring his screams, Bruce picked him up by the torso, flinging him into the warehouse wall.

The noise cut off with a sickening thud. The driver slid slowly towards the ground, twitching. Blood dribbled from his mouth.

Bianchi was gone when he turned around, the only sign of his presence the still-lit cigarette on the warehouse floor. A dozen feet away, the girls shivered, watching him with wide eyes.

“ _Ustedes están a salvo ahora,”_ Bruce said in a calm voice, holding out his hands slowly. _“Voy a llamar a la policía. ¿Me entiendes?”_

They nodded quickly, clinging to each other. In his ear, Dick’s voice was frigid.

 _“That absolute mother_ fucker _.”_

* * *

“I can’t charge Bianchi.”

Bruce eyed Jim, suppressing a growl. “He was  _there_.”

“You have no evidence,” the commissioner replied, “Antonio swears he wasn’t. The girls were drugged. His name doesn’t appear on any of the lists in evidence.”

“The cigarette--”

“You know we can’t get a DNA warrant without probable cause.” Jim hissed, pointing a finger at him. “I want to get the bastard as much as you do. Believe me. But there are _rules_.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “And the girls?”

“They’ll be okay,” Jim said, sounding weary. He rubbed a hand across his face, looking decades older than he should for a moment. “Psych is with them now. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing else, thank god.”

Bruce seethed quietly at the thought, fists clenching. Kevlar creaked between his fingers as he willed himself to calm down. Jim politely ignored his corner of the rooftop, content to gaze out at the skyline.

“The girls are safe. Antonio will do another twenty, thirty years easily. You broke up a significant operation.” Jim offered weakly. “This is the best scenario we could have asked for.”

“Right.” Bruce said, tightly.

“You’re going to do something stupid,” the commissioner pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a headache. “Aren’t you?”

Bruce eyed the next rooftop over, fingering his grapple gun.

“Have a good night, Commissioner.”

* * *

“You should have tied that before we got into the car,” Dick said, leaning over the seat. “Good luck getting it perfect before the paps see you.”

Bruce ignored him, tugging on the bowtie. The car flew around the corner, tires screeching. He watched Dick carefully, making sure he didn’t fly out the window, but the child balanced through the turn easily. “You’re not helping.”

“You’re the reason we’re late!”

“I was helping Clark,” Bruce said, finally getting the tie into something that almost looked presentable. “He was having a writing crisis. He needed a quote. Something about penguins.”

“ _Penguins_?”

“Not important,” Bruce said, spotting the mob of paparazzi ahead. “Sit down. The last thing I need is _People’s_ writing an expose about how I don’t make you wear a seatbelt.”

Dick acquiesced. “You don’t.”

“ _Not the point_.”

They exited the car with the requisite amount of fanfare. Bruce waved, signed a few autographs, and herded Dick inside the gala before they could be detained by _People’s_ magazine.

“Can I have try some champagne?” Dick asked hopefully, eyeing the bar to the far left.

“You’ve been sneaking sips out of the pantry since February.” Bruce replied.

Dick scowled, looking away. “You have no proof.”

“Champagne goes bad after a few days once it’s opened. At least turn the cheap stuff to vinegar next time.”

Dick crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, getting puppy eyes in return. “Fine. Have some. I don’t care.”

Dick darted off with a _whoop,_ disappearing into the crowd. Bruce pulled a glass of cabernet from a passing tray, settling in against the wall. Half an hour of facetime here, and then they could leave early in true glitterati fashion.

He was scanning the room, wondering if it was worth it to say something scandalous to the _Gazette_ reporter in the corner, when his eyes caught on a familiar face. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides, his heart rate jumping.

Frank Bianchi took a glass of champagne from his wife with a smile, laughing at something she’d said. They were surrounded by a dozen party-goers, all captivated by the famous couple.

Before he could stop himself, he was already halfway across the room, fists rising from his sides.

It was only the realization that he wasn’t wearing the cowl that kept him from launching himself at Bianchi right then and there.

He bit his tongue and forced himself back over to the wall, his heart pounding in his ears. Bianchi put a hand on his wife’s shoulder--the same one Bruce could picture wrapped around the thin arm of the trafficked girl, squeezed tight against the pale skin.

The second Bianchi excused himself for the restroom, he pushed off the wall, following him. He stalked down the hallway to the bathrooms, his gaze never leaving Bianchi’s back.

When he pushed into the bathroom behind Bianchi, he found the man unzipping at the urinal.

“Bruce!” the businessman said, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in _ages_. How are you?”

 _I can’t do this here,_ Bruce realized, his heart pounding. _Or I won’t stop._

“Doing well,” he said, putting on a smile so fake, his teeth ached. “How’s business?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Great,” he said, backing out of the restroom. “Excuse me.”

* * *

“He’s _here_?” Dick hissed, turning towards the restroom. “Why didn’t you--”

“Keep your _voice down_ ,” Bruce growled, dragging the kid into the corner by one of his lapels. “I can’t just jump him. He’d figure it out.”

Dick frowned, directing his glare at the hallway to the restrooms. “I wish you would have, anyway.”

 _Me too, kid_. Bruce thought. He grabbed another glass of wine from a passing tray, gripping the stem tightly. “Wait.”

“What?” Dick asked eagerly. “Changed your mind?”

“I think I have a better plan.”

* * *

“ _Betty_.”

The woman turned from her girlfriend, eyes widening. “ _Bruce._ How _are_ you, dear?”

He leaned in, air kissing each cheek. Mrs. Bianchi blushed prettily, gripping the train of her dress tightly with one hand.

“I’m doing well. You look ravishing tonight, has anyone told you that yet?”

“Oh, you flirt,” she laughed at him, giggling up and down a perfectly tuned scale. “Frank is in the bathroom, I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, smiling over his glass. He held it out. “Cheers?”

She clinked the rims of their glasses together, grinning. Something over his shoulder caught her eye.

“Oh--Look! Frank’s right there,” she waved, “Frank! Come over and see Bruce!”

He watched Bianchi’s reflection in a nearby mirror, timing his movements carefully. When Frank was within a few feet of them, he spun around, the arm with his glass outstretched.

“ _Frank_!”

He crashed into Bianchi, sending them flying over a nearby table. Bruce rolled in midair, making sure to land an elbow in the man’s ribs as they hit the floor.

Bianchi went white, gasping. He was covered in red wine, tiny shards of Bruce’s glass scattered across his chest.

“My _god,”_  Bruce exclaimed, stumbling to his feet. “I am so, _so_ sorry. Please, let me help you--”

He grabbed Bianchi’s arm, tugging him up a few feet. Once Frank was horizontal to the ground, he let the arm go.

Bianchi fell facedown, making an awful sound as he hit the hardwood. Bruce turned to Betty, putting on a horrified expression.

“F- _fugghh_ ,” Bianchi moaned, lifting himself from the ground. His nose was crooked, already swelling as blood gushed from his nostrils. “Wayne, you _idioth--_ ”

“I _insist_ you let me pay for the dry cleaning,” Bruce said, retrieving a business card from his jacket. He stepped toward Bianchi, stumbling slightly. “Here’s my c--oh!”

His foot caught on the wine-soaked floor, sending him crashing to the floor. He landed solidly on Bianchi, making sure his knee hit the man’s nose for good measure.

Frank roared in pain, his screams muffled by Bruce’s leg. He let out a quieter moan as Bruce shifted, struggling to get to his feet.

“I am _so_ sorry--” _elbow to the cracked rib_ “I’ll be up in just a--” _palm of hand to broken nose_ “--a minute--” _step on left hand._

Betty finally grabbed his arm, hauling him away from her husband. Behind them, cameras flashed.

“I am _so_ sorry,” he repeated, smoothing his ruffled hair. “I don’t know how--I must have had a bit too much to drink.”

Someone nearby was on the phone with emergency services. Betty waved him away, her expression unreadable. Bianchi was close to unconsciousness on the floor, his breathing shallow.

Dick gestured to him from the corner. Bruce headed his way, shrugging past the throng of reporters who’d suddenly shown up, scenting blood.  

“That was _awesome!_ ” Dick cried. At Bruce’s warning look, he threw a hand over his mouth, turning away from the cameras. “I mean. Um. What an interesting turn of events.”

“Time to go,” Bruce said under his breath, nodding towards the door. A pair of EMTs ran in with a stretcher, throwing the gala into further chaos. “ _Now_.”

“We are _so_ talking about this at home.” Dick muttered, following him towards the fire exit.

* * *

“Other than that, I don’t have much else,” Jim Gordon said, finishing up. He tossed a flash drive towards him. “You’ll find the files on the Russians in the images folder. Might help.”

Bruce nodded, pocketing the drive. He removed the grapple gun from his belt, preparing it. Next to him, he made sure Dick was doing the same. The kid was hopping from foot to foot, clearly cold.

Gordon opened his mouth, then paused. There was a strange expression on his face.

“Frank Bianchi was arrested yesterday,” he said, overly-casual. “Hear anything about that?”

Bruce kept silent.

“There was an _altercation_ at a recent party,” Gordon continued, watching him carefully. “He was injured pretty badly. The workers at Gotham General found half a kilo of coke in his jacket. Know anything about that?”

“I don’t use drugs.” Bruce said.

Gordon glared at him.

“He’ll do at least ten years, if his lawyer gets it down that far.” the commissioner was squinting at him now, waiting for him to slip up. “No comment?”

Bruce inclined his head. “Have a good night, Commissioner.”

“Wait a minute--”

With a nudge, Dick leapt off the rooftop, firing his gun. Bruce was a second behind him, swinging away. Behind him, he could hear Gordon sigh.

“They always _do_ that _._ ”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> “Por favor, por favor. Quiero regresar a casa.” = Please. I want to go home. 
> 
> “Silencio. Te golpearé otra vez, perra. ¿Es eso lo que quieres?" = Quiet. I'll hit you again, bitch. Is that what you want? 
> 
> “Ustedes están a salvo ahora. Voy a llamar a la policía. ¿Me entiendes?” = You're safe now. I'm going to call the police. Do you understand me?


End file.
